The Dead Don't Shuffle
by Dr. Edmund Sirus
Summary: When night has fallen and ponies sleep Among the dead there's one who creeps. Where skeletons rot and corpses fester See him smile like a jester. As the dark night draws moonbeams He enters the crypt and runs toward screams. When night falls the dead will rise Only to face a second demise.


**The Dead Don't Shuffle**

"I love this little town. I love this little job.

"Name's Mors. Mors the Digger. Why digger? I'm a gravedigger. I run the crypt in this little hamlet called Sunset Grove, which is a little odd. Why? I'm one of maybe four or five unicorns in a town of about eight hundred earth ponies. There's a couple pegasi thrown in there somewhere, but this place is rooted in earth pony traditions. It was built by earth ponies who wanted to settle at the base of the mountain peak. The melting ice made the perfect freshwater stream for the village.

"But nopony is here for a history lesson. Want to know why we're here? Because ever since Sunset Grove was settled, they dug deep into the mountain, creating a vast network of catacombs to mine for precious ores. Once the veins dried up, they converted the mineshafts and corridors into a massive crypt in order to give the dead their proper place, as is proper by earth pony traditions. After all, earth ponies have been forever tied to the earth and the fertile fields, and when the time finally comes, they are returned to the earth. The crypt has grown vast indeed.

"I am here among the town council to request funds to maintain its upkeep. The Sunset Grove crypt holds more than just the honored dead, but the memories and history of the town's one hundred fifty long years. It would be an immense disrespect to the dead and this town's legacy to let the crypt devolve into a state of disrepair.

"Submitted with my proposal is a modest amount for current upkeep. If needed, I can submit additional information at the Council's request."

Mors, a dirty rust-colored unicorn stallion in his middle age, with watery blue eyes, and spade cutie mark, stood still in the middle of town hall as the Council deliberating among themselves. Dressed in a shabby but sturdy pair of work boots, he waited until one finally spoke, "Very well Mors. Your proposal is sound, but more time is needed to examine the finer details. We will contact you at a later date for further discussions."

Mors bowed respectfully. "Very well. You know where to find me." He paid little attention to his trek out the door. The day was almost over, and that meant his job was only half over. The scents, rustle, and bustle that only a modestly small town can perpetuate coursed through the dirt and gravel streets. Mors offered thanks, greetings, and words when he could, but he had only two hours until sunset. There was work to be done.

He shook his head, removing flakes of dust and dirt from his tan hair. Being the curator of the Sunset Grove crypts meant he spent a lot of time among those that did not often talk back. Dirt, mud, and must were hazards of the job. However, getting cleaned up or returning home was not just cause for being _too_ unsociable. It wasn't good form to deny one's neighbors pleasant company.

Mors approached his favorite fruit vendor, a perky iron-gray mare with hair bleached the color of pure mountain snow. As he approached, he felt her eyes wash across his legs and barrel. Most unicorns were on the lanky or pudgy side, but Mors was quite lean for his kind.

"Evening, Summers!" Mors greeted jovially. His smile stretched across his lantern jaw. "The usual!"

Summers muttered something as she turned around and removed a half bushel of apples from her cart. Despite the charming, if unrequited, attraction, Mors was looking at the sun as it slowly inched down the horizon. Summers, realizing no mare or stallion was looking at them, stole one more glance before holding out a hoof for her payment. Mors payed, and walked away.

He did not speak until he returned to his house. Like many ponies, he lived at his workplace, which meant he lived underground at a stone's throw away from the dead. His house was a simple one-roomed house containing the basic necessities; kitchen, bed, wash basin, dresser, and drawers. Pulling off his saddlebags, he removed a brass keyring from the iron lockbox next to the door. The keys to the crypts.

While possessing a respectful population size for such a small town, not very many Sunset Grove residents visited the graves every day. There were the regulars who made clockwork daily or weekly visits, those that dearly missed their friends or family that died just a little too soon. An old stallion, Burns, was exiting the crypt's iron gate as Mors approached. Every week before sunset, Burns visited an old friend that had passed away in his sleep. It was a sad tale, but many more shared the same fate.

Burns nodded to Mors as they passed each other. "Last one out, ah think; 's easy to get lost in there. Might still be stragglers."

"It wouldn't be the first time I've had to fish somepony out before closing. Won't be the last, either. Goodnight, Burns."

"'Night."

The crypt entrance, a simple – if massive, sturdy, and stout – iron gate, swung closed as Mors magiced it shut as he entered. The lock clicked as he locked himself inside. He needed to add a little more force to close it every time; yet another one of the many items he would need to replace when the Council finally finished deliberating over his request.

The innards of Mor's mausoleum were fairly typical, at least as far as crypts go. The walls were little more than compacted dirt and the occasional burrow through stone. Ancient and renewed railroad ties alike held up the less stable portions of dirt tunnels, a necessity in order to prevent cave collapses. Crystalline baubles, an invention of Mors', were pressed into the walls at intermittent intervals. They were there to collect ambient candle and sunlight, and store it until they shined in the dark. Empty iron torch brackets dotted the walls, a result of financial cutbacks. "There is a fortune in crypt interior design," he chortled.

The dead did not share his mirth and stayed disrespectfully quiet. Mors sighed at their silence. "Well, it's time to get to work."

His horn shined with low light. Deeper and deeper he walked into the darkness. While the mines were restructured for the dead, the actual crypt took some time to get to. Passing stone, spiderwebs, and the musk of moist earth, Mors finally came across the niches cut into the very rocks themselves. Earth ponies and their entombment. He wasn't one to judge. In fact, he liked the idea.

"Let my bones feed the maggots and earthworms in the soil when I'm dead and gone. I'm not gonna be usin' 'em."

As Mors entered a large central chamber that split into six directions, he pulled out his set of jingling brass keys. The stonework was quite nice, containing the Ionic pillars commonly seen in pegasus designs. It was an idea of his; such pillars were quite good at supporting higher ceilings. One of the tombs, an unmarked grave between two filled tombs, opened with a turn of the key.

"Hello, friends."

Mors pulled out a pair of hardy saddlebags and a thick shovel with an unusually sharp blade. He packed that away in his bags, along with a blacksmith hammer, mace, rope, and several ampules full of a clear liquid. The last item in the tomb was a pair of belts holding griffonic single-shot pistols with lead slug ammunition. Twelve pistols in all.

"Bang, bang, bang, bang..." Mors couldn't help but smile. He did a few laps around the antechamber to get the blood flowing, listening all the while as his boots clattered against the stone floor. Above him was a hole that opened up to the night sky. Dusk was almost upon him. It was a good thing he had locked the proper doors in the deeper catacombs before he delivered his proposal.

Mors jogged down the tunnels, listening intently to any noise. It was all as quiet as... well, a grave. Nevertheless, it would do no good if he didn't take the time to cleanse the crypts of the living, otherwise they would very quickly become the dead. It was not as if he did not trust Burns' word, but he did not wish to chance Burns being wrong. All the while he passed darkened tomb after tomb, silent and empty and full graves, a sense of excitement filled his veins. His favorite part of the day – or night – was coming up. As it should be, nopony was present, and he raced back to the antechamber.

Orange sunlight died to a deep crimson. Using a firestarter in his bags, Mors lit the pair of torches in the antechamber to give him the light he needed. Although the glow stones should have been active now, he did not want to take the chance that they all had the proper light. It would be no good stumbling around in the dark.

"Oh, silly Sunset Grove," Mors chuckled, "why go to sleep when it's such a beautiful night?" He loved the night. As refreshing as the day was, he usually slept through the first half of it. The night was beautiful and wonderful. Nopony watched him, as they were all asleep. It was an exhilarating feeling, being free. Truly free. The only thing Mors could equate the feeling to was flying.

The light was evaporating and darkness grew. Soon the only light would be from the torches placed on the walls. Mors took the time to load powder and shot into his guns. He loved this part, the anticipation.

"It's like opening a present. Piece by piece, the paper flies off. You wonder what's underneath. Then you find out. The reveal is never quite bested by the anticipation." The barrel clicked in place. "Still, should get me one of them revolvers to lighten things up."

The light died, and he waited for the sounds. He waited for them. He always waited for them to take their own positions first, as he never wanted them to pop out when he wasn't paying attention. As the last step in the process, he locked the antechamber door leading the the surface and turned a crank that would close the hatch above. Torchlight and glowing crystals were his only companion now.

"Uuuughhh..."

Mors smiled. "Strike that thought."

Sounds, horrible sounds of lamenting cries and pained moans echoed down the half dozen paths to the deeper levels. Isolating the noise to the second from the left tunnel, Mors bolted.

Blood pumping, adrenaline burning, panic striking; it was an exhilarating experience dashing through low ceilings and tombs as he raced toward the source of the sounds. The crypts were a labyrinthian complex, capable of discombobulating most ponies not familiar with the layout. Mors had the entire complex memorized years ago; it was required for the other half of his job.

As he turned the corner, torchlight framed a thin shape hunched over next to a broken crypt door. Half of its face was nothing but dried, decayed, gray flesh that vibrated as a dusty growl tore through its long-unused throat.

"Butters! I remember you! Accidentally fell on a railroad spike, right?" As Mors spoke, the creature named Butters turned toward him. Indeed, a large hole through the side of his head revealed the soft gray matter underneath.

Butters ran toward Mors at full bore, a difficulty since its legs were withered remains of once powerful earth pony legs. Mors drew the shovel with his magic and met the charge with his own. Butters' breath came in ragged, staccato gasps. More than just his face and legs were atrophied beyond recognition for anypony except the mortician: whatever guts that weren't embalmed were hanging from its open chest cavity, the thread stitching long since torn open. A rat fell from Butters' open, undead chest as it galloped.

"Batter up!" The white magic surrounding the shovel jerked forward. The flat of the shovel smashed into the side of Butters' head, crunching bone and splattering the walls in a thin spray of gore. Mors kicked his boot hard, crunching what was left of the undead's skull against the wall. The body dropped to the ground with a meaty thump. The smile never left Mors' face.

"One down, a couple dozen to go."

He forced the now unmoving body back into the open grave. The entrance would have to be repaired, but there were more pressing concerns to worry about. The catacombs were alight with the sound of shuffling, groans, and moans. Wiping a whisp of brain matter off of his boots, Mors bolted towards the nearest sound.

Given the echoic nature of the crypts, sound echoed and redirected in all directions, making it difficult to triangulate the source. That held true, unless of course a pony lived and worked in them long enough to be able to triangulate the source of each sound. Mors stampeded down the corridors, twisting and turning every which way to make anypony less focused dizzy. If he was right, his next target was in a small T-junction room another twenty meters ahead and to the left.

The next gate was unlocked, so the trio of undead ponies never had time to prepare for their executioner.

"Is that what I am, if they're already dead?"

The first to fall was a thin mare dressed in her finest burial clothes. Mors' shovel pierced her neck, cutting deep into the muscle tissue. He tackled another and the pair rolled. The undead's poor coordination skills allowed him to come out on top when they stopped rolling. Straddling the side of the pony's rotten, desiccated chest, Mors brought both hooves up and smashed them down on its skull.

The third pony wasn't one Mors' was used to. "My, my, I'm not used to killing kids." Compared to the middle aged stallion, the teenager was very nearly a child, a female judging by the hips. Her body had dried and withered to a husk. What flesh remained on her brittle, brown bones was stretched and drawn so thin he was surprised she could move at all. Fresher corpses had eyes, but hers had long since vanished with dehydration and time.

"Ah, you're one of the older occupants." It made sense. No kids as young as her had died in a least a decade, yet she looked almost as old as Sunset Grove itself. She had languished so long in such a dry, musty coffin or cubby that her body looked as flammable as fresh firewood.

And that gave him an idea.

He gave a brutal kick to her throat. She stumbled back, her head snapping around at such an angle it would have killed her if she were still alive. Dry air rushed past her ancient lips and throat, but if there were words, her body had decomposed too far to leave her vocal cords intact. He threw a glass ampule at the filly and the liquid drenched her body.

He whirled back around to face the adult mare. "If you weren't dead, I would be sporting the mother of all stiffies right now." She would have been quite pretty if her eyes weren't glazed over and several patches of fur had not fallen out. She was the right mixture of muscled and plump in his eyes and her golden coat would have made her auburn mane shine on any moonlight night.

She still had to die a second time.

Detecting his presence, she charged him with the shovel still buried deep in her neck. He had cut something important, as her head was lolling to the left at a disgustingly severe angle. He could see muscle and severed bone through the wound and the hard cartilage supporting the trachea. He dug himself in and braced for impact.

Mors grabbed a hold of her throat with his hooves as she crashed into him. Surprisingly, she managed to force him back with raw strength alone. He was not the weakest of ponies. Killing the undead every night had sharpened his senses and kept the fat off his body. It was necessary to be in top shape when dispatching the undead, but given that she was an earth pony and the dead no longer had to deal with physical limitations on their body, she easily outstripped him in physical strength alone.

Being one of the very few unicorns in town had its advantages, like being able to manipulate objects he was not physically touching. His magic enveloped the shovel's handle and he yanked hard. The force would have been enough to decapitate her entirely, but the blade was stuck fast in the vertebrae and only served to bring her to the ground with a flail of limbs.

By then the filly had lurched to her hooves. She was incredibly slow and sluggish after being down in the crypts for so long. Whatever brain necrosis that accompanied the dead had reduced her to little more than a shambling wreck. Without an ounce of pity, Mors removed the firestarter from his bags and lit a spark. Without so much as a faint cry of pain, the fluid ignited in a flash. She was more kindling than body, and after a few quick moments, her bones cracked and she moved no more as the flames ate her form.

"All good things must come to an end, my dear. Pity it had to end this way." Mors turned, bucked the dead mare in the throat, and pulled on the shovel handle. It still refused to give and only served to yank the mare towards him. She lunged at him again, but using the tool lodged in her neck, he managed to redirect her momentum into the wall.

Heaving once again, Mors yanked her to the floor, the shovel still protruding out of her neck like some strange horn. He put a boot on her temple and put as much force onto the shovel as he could muster, magic and all. The metal cracked the vertebrae in half and sliced cleanly through her neck. The mare's head rolled a few times before coming to a stop. Mors brandished his shovel, spraying himself in a fine layer of fresh blood. The stallion and the filly had not risen once more. He nodded in approval and the look of intense concentration had morphed to a crooked smile. Sounds ghosted through the corridors, cries and moans of the undead. Time to get back to work.

"I kick ass for the living !"

* * *

It was high noon when Mors entered the Sunset Grove apothecary. While she primarily sold and distributes bandages and healing salves, Triage was the town's unofficial doctor when her shop was open.

"Hold still!"

"I am!" Mors complained. She was currently stitching a jagged cut very near his withers. Something looked off about the wound. She leaned in closer, her copper curls draping over her face.

"You tried to stitch this!" she shouted with venom.

"Of course! But they tore, and that's why I came here."

"And why would you possibly need stitches when sleeping you whiny little shit!?" While her words were harsh and voice high in volume, no true anger leaked into her voice. Although possessing the town's most distasteful profession, Mors' cheer and demeanor left many with a smile on their face.

"I found a piece of shrapnel that's been buried in dirt for a while. A piece of a spade head to be precise. _Before_ I went to sleep. Tripped over a stone and stumbled, yanking the rock out and slicing myself up." Triage thought for a moment. It _did_ make sense; Mors had several bruises consistent with hard impacts, although some were in odd places. "Suppose it's better than zombies."

Triage chuckled and finished the last few stitches. It took a bit of skill to hold a needle with hooves. She tied off the remaining thread, bit it to sever it from the spool, and replied, "I guess a cut is better than zombies. If dead cats or whatever start rising from the grave, don't get bitten. Actually, that sounds kinda neat for a movie. Dead cats rise from the grave. Kinda makes me wish zombies were real, but some of the mares in town fancy you. I don't think zombie Mors would be a turn on."

"Nah, bites don't turn you into a zombie. Just hurts like a bitch."

Triage blinked. The conversation was all in good fun, but Mors responded without a hint of sarcasm. Then she saw his smile, and punched him playfully in the shoulder. "Pay up and get outta here; I got a shop to run."

* * *

Mors finished up applying epoxy to the last broken grave marker. Most ponies were placed in wood caskets and inserted into cubby walls, although given the immensity of the crypt catacombs, there was plenty of room to spare for larger, more elaborate burials. Due to the number that still chose them out of tradition, that meant Mors spent a fair deal of time repairing granite, marble, and limestone grave markers.

"Nopony realizes how hard it is to repair graves. Bust out the wire brush to get all the built up crap off, brush it down, clean the dirt because epoxy doesn't hold to that stuff, find all the pieces, recarve anything that needs it, seal them together, yadda yadda yadda."

Half of a zombie torso, the last undead in the crypt, crawled pitifully towards him, moaning softly with every lurch. He looked at it with disdain. "Shut the fuck up, I'm busy." He removed his saddlebags and placed them on its back. Even as it clawed through the dirt, it did not seem to notice it wasn't making progress due to the added weight.

"Breaking your faces is the fun part. This is the boring part, because you assholes break out of your tombs all over the damn place. What's the number up to now? Thirty a night?"

Something cracked in its arm and one of its legs went limp. Mors laughed. "Tore a deltoid? I wish that happened more often. You know, the legends and stories all say zombies are these slow, shambling monsters. Nowhere does it say zombie ponies run like goddamn linebackers. Why can't the dead shuffle around?"

"Uuuughhh."

"Yeah, you're right. Of course, then it wouldn't be as fun. I just figured you ponies wouldn't be able to run so fast after death. Muscles atrophy after all. I suppose the physical limitations on the body are removed and you can use your muscles at their peak. I'm just saying it would be easier to kill you all if you were slow." He paused. "No offense."

"Rraauughh..."

"Seriously, no offense intended. You're just doing what you do. I'm just doing what I gotta do. Gotta kill you all every night so you don't swarm the town. The least I want is a little more time repairing the graves everyday. Ponies do visit, you know."

"Uuaghh..."

"Yeah, he comes next week for you, unless he gets snowed in at the resort again. He comes by your grave every month. You know, we get the occasional zebra and griffon in here. Like, maybe once or twice a year, but it does happen."

"..."

"What? I'm not racist. Everything is made of the same meat and bones. We all die the same. In fact, you should be proud. Earth ponies are pretty hardy. Tough muscles, thick bones. You all make me work for my victory every night. Pegasi have hollow bones, and all unicorns have are thicker skulls. You ponies are the toughest of the lot... I wonder what it would be like to kill a zombie griffon..."

"Raaaughhh."

"Yeah, fat chance one of them is going to be dying near here anytime soon. But I digress. I just want a little more time every day to fix graves. I got to make them immaculate every night and morning before anypony comes. About thirty revive every night. Using my magic, it takes me about ten minutes per grave. That's five hours repairing graves, and another hour and a half to walk around the crypt finding broken grave markers and shoving bodies back in tombs. If ponies start discovering damaged graves, especially if it looks like they were _broken out of_, that raises some eyebrows. Ponies freak out, the guard will be called in, they'll see the dead rising from their graves, cats and dogs will start living together, mass hysteria; I think everypony prefers if I just kill you all every night instead. A lot less hassle that way."

"Aaaahhhh..."

"Yeah, it's kinda weird I talk to the dead more than the living. Thanks for listening though."

Mors got to his hooves and dusted himself off. The zombie still tried to drag itself toward him. "Well, I'm sorry I got to do this, but it's got to be done. At least I get to try out my new warhammer."

Bags still on the zombie's back, Mors unstrapped a silver hammer from his pack. It had a pretty hefty shaft, enough so that his magic had trouble lifting it. A long, curved spike protruded from one end and tapered off into a sharp point. It was a weapon built for piercing platemail, but it worked against regular old skulls. Mors lifted it above his head, shaking slightly as his magic fought to hold it.

"It's hammer time!"

The spike pierced through the zombie's head with a sickening squish of flesh and crunch of bone. Its brains splattered against the ground in a spray of effluvial goo, painting his boots in a fine layer of gray matter. Mors heaved against the warhammer's staff, but it refused to budge. He yanked again with his magic, but it held fast.

"Oh, come on," he grunted. Putting a boot on what was left of the zombie's smashed spinal cord, Mors put his weight into the long handle and pulled as hard as he could. Little by little, the spike gave until it flew into the air, brains and fluids trailing from the spike and spraying Mors with zombie goo.

"Oh, it's in my mouth! Gross! Ew! Ew, ew, ew!"

* * *

"Oh come on, Ahuizotl was a geek! He totally had the hots for Daring Doo, rat brain," Triage said to Mors. The pair were currently enjoying a drink in the town's only watering hole.

"Says the hopeless romantic. Sand traps, spiders, snakes, and spikes is a little overkill for a passive aggressive boner, slime sucker," he replied

"You just don't get it, twinkletoes," she finished her glass of bourbon in a gulp. "He knows she'll escape. He always knows, and that's why the traps keep getting more and more elaborate. It's not to kill her, it's to show respect."

"He's got a funny way of showing respect for a potential squeeze, utters."

Triage blushed, shifting to cover her larger than average breasts. "Vacuous waste of space."

"I think that's cheating."

"Tough shit, keep going. Like I said, it's out of respect. If he put her in a situation where she had no trouble getting out, it would be an insult to her survival skills."

"Then he needs to be normal and ask her out, wet weasel. Are they just going to do it forever? One day Ahuizotl is going to kill her on accident, or she's going to get hurt so bad she can't rob those tombs anymore."

"Seriously? That's the best you got?"

"Hey, I try. Another!" Mors slid his empty rum and coke glass towards the bartender. The bartender grunted, refilled the glass, and continued cleaning empty mugs. "It's just that they've got to end it _sometime_. You can't do that song and dance forever."

"It's not supposed to be forever, xenomeniac."

"Hey, I take pride in not being a racist. I love all races equally. Or hate them equally, depending on your pessimism."

"Xeno_meniac_, not xeno_maniac_ you... oh shut the hell up, I'm on a roll. It's like a dance, each courting the other with escapes and traps. It's foreplay."

"Then the actual sex has to be the most dirty, sleazy, shameful fucking in recorded history, yak breath."

"Not everpony likes to flirt with the dead, zipperlips."

"Speaking with those that can't properly speak back is quite cathartic, atomic ass. Everything you're saying isn't backed by anything from the author. It's all conjecture, as titillating as it is."

"It's called subtlety, barf bag. You're supposed to build these things up before taking the leap. Again, foreplay. You can't just dive into bumping uglies, you got to warm up to the idea first.

"Until it _actually_ occurs, I disagree. Even during the interviews she's done, the author has never let anything slip. The skeleton of something is there, but she has yet to take advantage of it. Daring hasn't even commented that it might be Ahuizotl's way of coming onto her... what are we on?"

"C."

"...shit, I got nothing."

"Yes! Yes!" Triage jumped from her barstool and started pelvic thrusting the air. "Oh, I cannot be stopped! Drinks are on you, camel breath. Dick schnozzle! _Elf lips!_"

* * *

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, _shit, shit, __**shit!**_"

Mors rushed to the large, metal gate just as a half dozen zombies turned the corner and stampeded down the corridor in front of him. Removing his keys, he slipped them in the lock and turned. The group crashed against the gate, their hooves slipping through the bars like a many tendriled beast. He slipped through their grasp, backing into the wall.

"Well, this is one hell of a mess." He wiped his brow, coming away with equal parts sweat, blood, and zombie unmentionables. The sounds of zombies, other zombies, drew his attention. Due to the noise of the crowd right at his heels, locating the source proved difficult.

"See ya later, kill ya later."

Mors ran down another corridor, the sounds of one group of zombies diminished while the other only increased in volume. "Zom zoms are getting smarter. That's not good. Sticking to groups rather than wandering on their own. _Really_ not good."

A zombie turned the corner ahead of him and ran towards the sound of his gallops. Rather than take the more satisfying and visceral method of dispatching it, he quickly removed one of his pistols and fired; it wasn't as if they didn't know where he was anyway. The concussion made him wince in pain; firing black powder weapons was never a good idea in confined spaces.

Mors rushed through the cloud of spent powder, mace drawing from his pack in case he missed the shot. His aim was true, however, and the zombie lay slumped against the wall with a gaping bullet hole in its skull.

"Headshot! Third one tonight! I've got a streak going!" His exuberance was short lived as reality came crashing down upon him. Although three shots fired true, he missed a clean headshot five times, sometimes hitting the wall or the chest and throat. Only four pistols remained readily loaded, and there was precious little time to reload when he was on an active hunt. The spent pistols would have to wait.

The screaming grew louder and louder. It was an abysmal racket, one that grated on the eardrums more than anypony could know. The damage done to a rotting or drying corpse morphed the vocal chords, giving them the capability to produce the most grating, ear-splitting cries imaginable.

Shaking away the ringing in his head from the earlier gunshot, he continued towards the sound of running zombies. Luring zombies into traps was always ideal, but he had precious little time to do so. Just like the previous group he had to lock behind a gate, they changed tactics tonight, or fate had the sudden, perverse desire to conspire against him. Now that a good portion knew where he was, he needed to rush them hard and fast, to destroy as many of them as quick as possible before they could overwhelm him with sheer numbers. Locking the gates proved to be an advantageous way of isolating them, but it had the downside of restricting escape routes.

"Oh, it's going to be a long night," Mors moaned. He adjusted his magical grip on the mace. The sounds were upon him. He was approaching a four-way split in the catacombs. He knew that the left led to the darker and less occupied portions of the crypt. It wasn't likely that there were many zombies down there, but hiding would do little good now.

Ten meters out, an undead turned the corner from the left and right each and, upon seeing him, both charged. He had long grown accustomed to the screams and growls of the dead, but there was a difference. The ones the duo gave now were low, wild, and frequent, a sign he had often attributed to seeing something they desired. Namely him.

"I get _all_ the mares and stallions eventually, Triage. 'Cept for the fact they're dead. Kinda puts a damper on things."

The pair, both stallions, scrambled around each other to reach him. No fear, no pain, only a blind desire to destroy. It made a zombie one hell of an enemy due to sheer determination alone, but their strength was their weakness. You could always count on a zombie to make the easy kill.

He threw the mace at the lead zombie with as much force as he could muster. It cracked against its knee and brought the loping pony to the ground. It was by no means a finishing blow, but it was enough to even the odds for a few moments. His current location had precious little room to maneuver, and dirty tricks were lifesavers in close quarters.

Mors drew the blacksmith hammer and thrust it into the zombies open, salivating mouth. Enamel exploded in every direction like bullets, but at least a zombie couldn't effectively bite with no teeth. Mors parried one arm to the side, getting close enough to deliver a solid right hoof to the stern. Something cracked and he fell backwards.

The other stallion had gotten to his hooves, but Mors was already prepared. It was difficult for him to dual wield weapons, so he dropped the hammer to the dirt and summoned the mace.

_Crack!_

The mace smashed into the stallion's shoulder, but not enough to break the bone. Gritting his teeth, Mors forced the handle of the mace into its mouth. The force of the magical thrust propelled his head into the wall, but the zombie still flailed.

"Damn, you're a hardy one."

Using his grip on the mace as leverage, Mors twirled the zombie around and straight into his open forelegs. The dead stallion's rotten, scabby back pressed against his chest and barrel. It struggled against his grip, flailing limbs wildly in an effort to dislodge the cryptkeeper. It was strong, far stronger than Mors was. He kept having to shift his legs in order to get a grip around the monster's flailing limbs, all the while struggling to keep the mace handle in his mouth.

Mors finally managed to get a hold around the stallion's chest and throat. Holding tight, he twisted as hard as he could muster. There was a loud crack as something broke. That didn't stop the stallion from thrashing in his grip.

"Ooph!"

The zombie finally got a good hit and kicked Mors in the ribs. It felt like he got a boulder thrown at him and he fell to his knees as the wind left his lungs.

"Block it out, block it out," he chanted. Pain didn't matter right now. At least two dozen zombies prowled the crypt. At least the entrance was sealed, but zombie strength was great enough that he didn't know how long the gates would last once they realized tasty morsels dwelled outside their confines.

Mors stumbled to his feet, clutching his gut in pain. "That _hurt_!" He'd likely have to get his ribs reset by Triage again, and he was running out of excuses. He'd already lost his grip on both the stallion and his mace, and the other was already to his hooves looking at him hungrily.

He jumped backwards as the downed stallion charged. He removed his rope next, snaking it around the zombie's legs and throat. It fell to the ground once again, bound by tight layers of rope. It writhed and screamed against his bonds. To Mors' discontent, he heard the sound of snapping rope. Zombies didn't need to worry about pain, so they could use their muscles to their absolute maximum effect. Coming from a zombie earth pony, a simple kick could prove devastating, even fatal. It tore their muscles and tendons to pieces under the stress, but no zombie had that self preservation instinct.

He still had time to kill the other. Mors had indeed broken something in its neck; its head rolled around like some sick merry-go-round. The mace and shovel were both down and would take just half a second longer to brandish then he had.

Mors' trusty shovel shot out out of his pack. Just like his skirmish with Butters a few days back, he began with a smack to the side of the face. It was enough to knock the zombie into the wall and he thrust the handle of the shovel into his mouth, not to stop him from biting, but to hold him in place for a few precious seconds.

He kicked as hard as he possibly could into the stallion's throat. He felt the crunch of broken cartilage against his boot, but it _still_ wasn't enough to bring him down. Grasping a hold of his forelegs, Mors pulled while pushing on his shovel. With a sickening snap of broken ligaments and tendons, the zombie's body fell into Mors' grasp, twitching but otherwise limp. Its head was still pressed against the wall by his shovel.

Mors yanked on his shovel as the resounding snap of rope told him the second zombie had finally rose and broken his bonds. he didn't even have time to growl in hunger before Mors shoved the shovel so hard into its chest the head dug into the wall. The zombie snarled at Mors with its milky eyes, screaming and snarling for no other reason than he was there.

"Lights out." Mors picked up his hammer and swung hard, scattering brains across the wall. He sighed and took a momentary respite to sit and breathe.

"I'm getting too old for this shit."

* * *

"I've always wondered, Mister Digger–"

"Please, just Mors will do."

"Mors, why do you spend so much time in the underground instead of mingling in town?"

"It better not be because he likes to crack open a cold one."

Triage, Summers, and Mors were together at the dinner table enjoying an omelette apiece, sprinkled with parsley and basil. Mors usually preferred to go out to eat for something that was horribly high in calories, but he never denied a free meal, especially when it was made by Triage. It was a cozy flat, even if it was on the small side. Like Mors' own house, hers was built for only one pony with little room to spare.

Mors smiled and said, "As much as Triage wishes to spout fanfiction about me." Triage snorted, "I like it. There is a lot of history down in those crypts, ponies that are not in the historical records. You read those names and notations and you get a much better feel for the town and what Sunset Grove was before our time. It's my way of paying respect to the dead."

"Whatever, you fruitloop," Triage joked. "you spend over half the day down there. Ponies are starting to wonder if you got some kind of troll horde down there."

"I like my job!"

"I think that's nice..."

"I think it's _weird_!"

"Now, now, Triage, don't judge too harshly." Summers smiled hesitantly at Mors. "I think it's sweet."

Mors smiled back, something that was a little hampered with the bandage around his head and chest. Summers' gaze kept drifting to the white material, but her mouth kept opening and closing, unable to form a coherent question. Timidly, she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and continued with her breakfast.

Triage, however, was openly eyeing Mors as if staring at him long enough could divine whatever secrets he held. Mors only smiled innocently and continued to eat.

"I'll begin. Stop staring, groundpounder."

"Horn jerker."

Summers could only blush.

* * *

Due to the previous night's distressing and troublesome worries, Mors closed the crypt early to give him a little more time to set some traps. Snares couldn't hold back a zombie's strength, and pit traps were too complex to make and difficult to hide from civilians. That left traps that were easy to assemble, but did not revolve around binding them.

Mors had come up with a good dozen spring-loaded traps built to swing blunt objects at the legs or the head. Very rarely did one kill a zombie, but they were designed to slow them down in order for him to take the time to pick them off one by one.

"I think I'm the biggest serial rekiller in the world." Truly he had refined terminating zombies into an art. He knew what tendons to cut, where to shoot, how to fight a group, and the best way to kill a single zombie based on the total time of decay alone.

Thus began the daily ritual: setting traps, reloading guns, locking certain gates to funnel zombies to certain locations, and making a final check to make sure no civilians were present on the soon to be battlefield. With a half hour left to spare, Mors returned to the antechamber to wait until sunset. His earlier wounds were nothing more than a dull ache now; daily assaults had toughened him against the more debilitating aspects of most wounds.

"How long have I been at this now? Two years?" At least it was different every time.

_Clang!_

Mors' ears perked as the sound reverberated off the crypt walls. That was in the eastern quadrant, where the newer tombs were. "_That's_ new..." This was one of those professions where new things were always bad. Always. It wasn't dusk yet. He still had another ten minutes to wait. They always rose at dusk, never before. Then again, they were supposed to _always_ move against him on their own, not in groups.

"...Aw, fuck..." Hesitantly, he cantered down the rightmost antechamber corridor. He always waited for them to all remove themselves from their tombs before attacking. That way, he couldn't be surprised by one if they spontaneously burst from the walls. By then, they were all already out.

Five minutes until dusk, he was halfway there. Still no sounds of zombies, but what made that noise? He'd already checked for signs of life, and double checked because he had time. When his last few minutes were up, he was a hundred yards away from the east wing. They'd be exiting their graves soon.

"Oh, this night already went to shit," he moaned. Lucky the newer sections of the crypt were bottlenecked by a long corridor. If he was swarmed, it would be much easier to pick them off. He even had a trap in that area to slow them down if needed, which he took extra care to avoid upon heading to the east wing.

Sounds of scratching, moaning, and shouting were already heavy in the air. they were awakening and realizing they needed to bash open their grave markers to escape. That would give him a little more time, but then the air was cut by the last sound he expected: a scream. A very pony, very alive scream from dead ahead.

Mors bolted into a full gallop. The newer east wing was small, only composed of two large chambers. Whatever, or more accurately _whoever_, screamed was just ahead. Exiting the corridor, he came across an open grave and an overturned cart. He usually had pots of flowers for families on the cart, but what made him double take was the gravemarker. Not only was it blank, but it was intact. It was carefully removed, and zombies were never careful.

Another scream pierced the air. He knew that voice. "Triage!"

Mors continued through the first chamber, running straight into the second. This one had a smashed open limestone grave scattered all over the floor. Triage was holding a broom in her hooves and doing her best to fight off a recently deceased mare dressed in her burial best. It just _had_ to be a new one. Fresh zombies were always the strongest.

Triage's brown coat and glossy red curls were stained with sweat stemming from exertion and fear. The zombie took a particularly vicious swipe with a hoof, snapping her pitiful weapon in half without much effort. Triage dove into the corner, terror framing her as her mouth opened in a wordless scream.

"Oh, no you don't!" Mors' mace shot from his pack in a smooth motion, swinging in a wide arc to provide the most possible damage. Blood and skull fragments showered the pair of them in a light mist. The mare's body slid against the wall, leaving a streak against the stone as she fell.

Triage was unmoving. Her eyes were fixed on the spot where the zombies had been hovering above her. Now was not the time for pleasantries, however.

"The fuck are you doing here!?" Mors hissed as quietly as he could. Triage refused to acknowledge the question or even blink. If she were not breathing, Mors could have thought she was a statue of one of his many dead charges.

"Triage. Focus! Are you the only one here?" He smacked her across the face. That seemed to bring her out of the deadlock.

"You fucker!" And she threw a hoof right into his bandaged chest. She wasn't as strong as the zombies, but the fresh wave of anger coupled with fearful adrenaline made for a potent cocktail. Mors grunted in pain, almost losing a grip on his mace before he covered Triage's mouth with a leg, halting whatever future protest and anger she might divulge.

"Quiet!"

Thankfully, she listened, but the fire had yet to clear from her eyes. He was painfully aware of how fast she was breathing while pressed against her, but his ears were erect, listening for anything.

He heard nothing. Another first.

"They're attracted to sound," he whispered. "Those that still have working eyes know on sight if you're not one of them and attack. Still not sure how. I think they can smell the difference between us and them."

Triage pried him off of her. She opened her mouth, but closed it, her eyes searching for some appropriate question. Finding none, Mors spoke first, "Welcome to my night job."

"...How?" she whispered desperately. Mors got up slowly, helping her to her hooves. Her legs were shaking but stable.

"How do the dead come to life every night?" he asked. She nodded. "No clue. I'm just here to make sure they don't get out."

Her mind worked to put things together. The wounds, the offhand remarks, the constant attention to the crypts. It made sense, as utterly absurd and impossible as it was. "Does anypony else know?"

"If they do, they're not saying a word. I've been here for seven years, and they've been rising every night for two. Now listen, this is important. Did anypony come with you?"

"Why...? No, I snuck in and hid in an empty tomb and waited for you to lock the front gate. I wanted to see what you do every night, why you keep getting hurt." She forced a pained laugh. "Got my wish. Proved a little more eventful than I had anticipated."

"Yeah, that happens most nights." Mors' ears perked and he stood rigid, startling the poor mare. He heard them, the cries and shouts of many long dead souls. The blood splattered against her face made her look even more pathetic. The strong mare he had known now faced something she wasn't sure she could handle.

"They are coming."

Triage's preciously cobbled together composure took a hit. Her ears folded down over her head and she backed into a corner. "Oh, no no no no no! What do we do? What – "

"What I do every night." He twirled the mace. "Give them a one way ticket on the asswhoping express!"

He sheathed the mace and removed a pair of pistols from his belts. It wasn't much of a last stand, but it was better than most nights, but this time he had to protect a civilian. He guaranteed nopony in town carried his raw battle experience, but this was going to be tricky. "Just sit tight and let me put a hoof up their collective ass."

A horde of zombies stampeded down the corner and down the long corridor. One poor soul that Mors felt no sympathy for was quickly stampeded under the hooves of his comrades. Another who had a shattered kneecap from Mors' hammer trap was trampled soon after. Two less zombies to take care of.

He fired both pistols, managing a headshot on only one. He dropped the weapons and pulled another pair, only earning a glancing wound both times. He repeated the process, managing to score another headshot. He wasn't trying to kill them all with firearms alone, only kill enough at the front of the stampede to hinder the footing of the zombies in back. It would buy a few precious seconds, but those seconds could prove the difference between life and death.

He felt something strange near his flanks and whirled. At first he thought the zombie he had just killed had risen once again and attacked, but it was just Triage removing the mace he had just stashed with her frightened hooves. Mors said nothing and dashed into the corridor with shovel drawn.

The first fell without much effort. The second clamored over his body, crunching the skull into the dirt. Mors thrust the shovel blade into his throat, nearly severing the head right off. Bashing the butt of the shovel into his face did the job quick enough.

There were still six of them, too many to fight in such a narrow space when they were forcing the vanguard forward with the determination only an undead or a very stubborn mortician possessed. They still outnumbered him and forced him back farther and farther. He took one more down with a blow to the temple, but by then, he was forced back into the first of the two chambers.

He thrust the flat of the shovel head against the temple of a decrepit mare. Her vacant eye sockets were crawling with earthworms and maggots. Arthropods scattered to the floor as she stumbled with an angry, dry grunt.

_Crack!_

Triage had taken the initiative and brought the mace down on the dead mare's head. Even though the mare went limp after the blow, panic-stricken Triage continued to smash the metal head against her head until it was nothing but paste.

"Four more, ginger git!"

"This is not the time for games you arrogant, careless, lying sack of buffalo droppings!"

"Doesn't begin with an H! Drinks are on you!" Mors smile returned as he swept the legs out from underneath a rotting colt. The sharpened blade cut clean above the knee. He fell, his mouth coming down on one of Mors' boots. He gnawed uselessly against the leather and Mors brought a boot down on his head again and again until he ceased to nibble.

A smile had cracked Triage's angry, fearful face at Mors' jab. She had advanced on a stallion in his sunday best. Mors knew him; he was buried only last month. Triage had no doubt selected to fight him due to the lack of decay on his body, but that only meant he was more dangerous.

A fresh wave of anger seemed to have overridden any sense of self preservation or fear in the mare. The stallion's face was contorted in blind hunger and fury. Its milky eyes bore into the mare, but she met him stroke for stroke. Every step he made was met by a swing of the mace. Bones cracked in the stallion's legs but that didn't even slow it down. Bloody splinters sheared through his legs, the disgusting sight forcing her to swallow back a wave of bile.

Mors moved onto the next poor souls. The remaining two were left for him, an ancient, decrepit stallion and a filly bare of any clothes. The rope shot out of his bags and bound the filly. Although a full grown stallion was often stronger than a filly, the dried body of the stallion was a much easier target due to its age. He planted the shovel in the middle of the filly's spine and half her body went slack.

Triage was still playing the defensive, only swinging when her zombie took a swipe at her. Her eyes still burned with determination, carefully weighing her options until she discovered an appropriate time to strike. He knew she was not accustomed to fighting, let alone against such an unusual opponent, but she was holding up well, all things considered.

The stallion dove towards her, mouth open in a howl. She ducked under the dive, letting a hoof swing the mace at the stallion's rear legs. The kneecap wrenched in an awful direction and he was brought to his knees. Raising her mace with a triumphant snarl, she brought it down on the zombie's head again and again.

Mors put both rear hooves on his stallion's back and his forehooves around his neck. His skin had the consistency of very brittle, dry leather, something that warped and snapped as he yanked as hard as he could. The stallion's head popped off with a crunch and a series of sickening tearing sounds.

He turned to take care of the downed filly, but Triage was already making quick work of her with the mace. Her chest and face was splashed with bits of blood and gore. She was seething with bloodlust, fury, and suppressed fear. When it was reduced to quivering mulch, she turned in place with a death grip on the mace, looking furious for any more zombies.

There were none.

"Heh, not bad Triage. Not bad." Her eyes darted to him, wild with emotion. She clenched the mace and advanced a step. For a moment Mors swore she was about to attack him, but all she did was quietly breathe before collapsing to her rump. The mace clattered to the floor and she began shivering.

"W-what's wrong with me?" She wrapped her hooves around herself. "I'm not c-cold..."

"It's your body burning through excess adrenaline. It'll pass." His eyes and ears were open and alert, searching for any sounds of coming dead. He heard them deeper in the crypts, but they were still a good distance away.

He turned on her. She looked up at him, not quite sure what to think or feel. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a white cloth and began cleaning the blood off her face. "You did good, Triage. You did real good. More than anypony could have asked you to do."

"And you do this every night?"

"Yup. Somepony's got to keep them from wandering the streets every night."

"Bloodshed and butchery is what it is," she harumphed. "Hog-breathed hellion," she added.

Mors smiled returned, and so did hers. "Inbred Imbecile."

"Jackass."

"Oh come on, that one's too easy."

Something broke the tension between the pair. Triage's grin wobbled between a smile and a scream. Chuckles rose in her throat and soon the pair were openly laughing in the midst of a pool of blood and dead bodies.

"I am so very tempted to kill you right now."

"Welp, my boner's gone."

Triage kicked him in the ribs again. "Damnit it!" he grunted. "What's with you and hitting me?"

"You deserved that one!" She kicked him again, this time in the groin. "And that's for lying to me all this time!"

Mors whimpered pitifully on the floor. "Oh, Celestia... at least zombies have the courtesy to try to kill me quickly..." he moaned.

He shook off the pain. The angry but still smiling Triage helped him to his hooves. Both were still drenched in bits of gore. Mors picked a piece of skull fragment out of her hair, while Triage tossed off a piece of cerebellum that was clinging to his withers.

"I suppose I can file this under freak out later. We still have to get out, don't we?"

"Not yet," he replied. "There's still a good two dozen or so left. I can take you to the exit, but I can't let you out until I've cleared a path."

"We."

Mors raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

Triage walked to where the bloody mace had rolled under one of the carts. She took the cloth and wiped it down. "Don't think I'm leaving you to do this alone. Jumping jerk-off."

Mors snorted. "This isn't pleasant, Triage. It never is."

Her smile became pained, but pieces of her original mirth tinged with a dash of sadness colored her face. "I've dealt with you long enough. I'll survive, and you need the help."

He was ready to argue, but her eyes burned with the familiar determination from before.

"Well then, lock and load, Triage. Be on your guard, and let's send the dead back to the grave..." He trotted down the tunnel, Triage closely at his heels. "...Knucklehead."

"Limp dick."

"Motor mouth."

"_Nimrod."_

"_Ogre jailbait."_

_** "Peckerhead!"**_

* * *

_As long as I am alive, the dead will never know peace. Mostly because they won't shut the hell up and I like returning the favor._

_~Mors the Digger_

* * *

Edited by: Genesis1212, Reader Review

Prereader: Softy8088


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